Nassau, The Rum House
The old rum house reeked of sweat, salt, and timber left too long to rot in the rain.
Lanterns swung from rusted hooks, throwing restless shadows across warped floorboards and smoke-thick beams. Laughter and bad music leaked through the walls like blood through gauze.
Thomas Vance ducked under the low archway, the heat swallowing him whole. It clung to his skin like syrup — heavy, sour, alive. His boots thudded against the planks as his eyes adjusted to the dim.
Four players sat around a long, battered table at the room's center. Three were already drunk. The fourth wasn't drinking at all.
And at the middle of it — of course — was Jonah Briggs, dealing cards like he owned the place.
"—and that's when I told the Admiral," Jonah boomed, fanning his hand with a grin, "if he wanted his cannon back, he'd best fetch it from the brothel's bathhouse!"
The table howled. Rum spilled. One man actually fell out of his chair.
Jonah leaned back, boot on a stool, the picture of someone who'd never once felt shame or fear. His grin could've lit the room better than the lanterns.
"There he is!" he called as Thomas stepped through the haze. "My partner in crime and intimidation. Look at that scowl — puts the Devil to shame!"
Thomas stayed near the door, arms crossed. "You said this was a quiet table."
"Quiet-ish," Jonah said. "Depends on your definition."
One of the players — a ruby-faced merchant draped in cheap gold — eyed Thomas warily. "He don't talk much?"
"Only when you're about to lose," Jonah replied.
Thomas didn't smile. He crossed the room, sat beside Jonah, and nodded once — the kind of nod that said I already regret this.
A bottle slid toward him, a peace offering from someone too eager to please. He ignored it.
The dealer — a wiry old man with hands like barnacle crust — shuffled the deck. His eyes were pale, lifeless, like they'd forgotten how to blink.
"Buy-in's ten gold," Jonah said lightly. "But you, my generous friend—" He gestured to the merchant. "—you look the charitable sort."
The merchant grunted and tossed his coins into the center. "Your friend better be more than decoration."
"He's insurance," Jonah said, smiling.
The cards came down.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
The dealer's movements were mechanical — too smooth, too practiced.
Jonah leaned into the act. "So there I was, naked, outnumbered, and holding a broken bottle—"
"You always start your stories like that," Thomas muttered.
"That's because they're always true," Jonah replied. "Mostly."
The table laughed — except one man.
Tall. Thin. Wrapped in a black coat too heavy for the heat.
He didn't drink. Didn't smile. Didn't move.
He just stared at Thomas.
That stare didn't feel like curiosity. It felt like recognition.
Jonah nudged him under the table. "Your call, mate."
Thomas looked at his hand. Then at the faces.
"I fold," he said.
Jonah groaned. "You're no fun at all."
"I'm alive," Thomas said.
The game rolled on — cards, bets, laughter. Jonah won a hand, lost two, won again. The pot swelled, the men drank deeper, the air turned meaner.
But Thomas wasn't watching the cards anymore.
He was watching the man who hadn't blinked in ten minutes.
Something about the way he sat — too balanced, too still. His coat was dry in a room thick with sweat. His eyes never left Thomas's hands.
Then — a flicker. A shift of fabric.
A glint of iron beneath the coat.
Thomas moved first.
He kicked the table hard.
Coins exploded into the air.
The merchant screamed.
A gun flashed.
BANG.
The shot tore through the air, grazing Thomas's ribs and burying itself in the wall behind him.
Jonah shouted, "Bloody hell!"
The man in black was already drawing a second pistol.
The deserter scrambled for his knife. The dealer vanished under the table. Chairs crashed, cards scattered.
Thomas lunged — too slow.
The barrel rose, aimed for his head—
CRACK.
A second shot. Not his.
The man in black jerked backward, blood spraying his shoulder. He slammed against the wall, eyes wide with shock.
Smoke curled in the doorway above.
A figure stood there — cloaked, calm, deliberate.
She stepped into the lantern light, and the room seemed to still around her.
Storm-grey eyes. Angular face. Every motion measured.
No panic. No hesitation. Just purpose.
She looked straight at Thomas.
"Time to go," she said.
Jonah blinked. "Who the hell—?"
"Now," she snapped.
Boots thundered on the stairs below — organized, disciplined, fast. Soldiers.
Thomas grabbed Jonah by the collar. "Move."
They vaulted the railing as musket fire tore through the room behind them.
The woman was already gone — leaping across the rooftops, her cloak a streak of grey and shadow. Thomas followed, Jonah cursing every step.
"I hate rooftops!" Jonah yelled.
"Keep moving!"
Shots cracked. Lanterns flared. A bottle shattered. They sprinted across slick tiles, breath burning in their throats.
"Who is she?" Jonah gasped.
Thomas didn't answer.
He looked back once — saw soldiers flooding the street, the rum house already half ablaze — then turned forward.
"She knows me," he said quietly, more to himself than to Jonah.
Jonah stumbled beside him. "Well, that's unsettling."
The wind tore through the alleys, carrying the smell of smoke and salt.
Thomas's ribs burned where the bullet had grazed him. But deeper than pain was something else.
The way she'd looked at him — like she'd known his face before he'd ever lived it.
Like the sea had whispered his name to her first.
And for the first time, Thomas Vance realised this wasn't Jonah's usual brand of trouble.
This was something older.
Something waiting.
And it had just found him.